


The Adventure of the Blackmailer's Mistake

by cinnamon_lyons



Series: Dark Days: Holmes and Moriarty [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1880s, M/M, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer 1884. Holmes is getting more and more cases, although not really any closer to Moriarty, much to Moriarty’s annoyance! Moriarty narrates their investigation into a presumed suicide in a man who is being blackmailed for his sexuality, which seems to have some relevance to their own relationship.</p><p>This story contains no violence (unlike others in the series).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Blackmailer's Mistake

It was a warm day in the middle of summer – one of those swelteringly close times of year when it is too hot even to venture outside, and Holmes and I were sitting in the parlour of the house in Bermondsey. I myself was engrossed in some particularly convoluted trigonometry problems, while Holmes perused the papers, pausing every so often to make a note, expanding his ever-increasing collection of facts and biographies of the criminal classes in which, I had to admit, I shared his morbid interest.

We were interrupted by the clattering of the door-knocker, followed by the bustling steps of our landlady and a nervous knock at our door – the poor woman had caught the sharp edge of Holmes’ tongue on more than one occasion when she had failed to adequately advertise her presence before entering. Still, there were many things it wouldn’t do for her to witness!

“Come in!” Holmes called out abruptly, and Mrs Seaton entered with the apologetic air that she always adopted around Holmes, who she clearly admired and feared in equal measure. 

“There’s a lady to see you, Mr Holmes.” She said, her voice not without a certain note of disbelief, for our visitors were almost exclusively gentlemen.

Moreover, the lady shown into our rooms was clearly among the more refined of her sex, and rather out of place in Bermondsey. Obviously in mourning, she was dressed entirely in black, her handsome face covered by a veil. Despite her garb, the woman was almost regal in her bearing and conduct, with a stiff emotionless manner that reminded me not a little of Holmes himself.

“My commiserations, Lady Dalton, on the tragic death of your husband.” Holmes declared, stepping forward to take the lady’s hand.

"You have been expecting me?” Lady Dalton queried, allowing only the faintest hint of bewilderment into her voice. Holmes smiled kindly.

“I read of your husband’s death only this morning, it is true.” He admitted, “But a woman of your bearing must certainly be a lady. I doubt there are many such who have so recently – for your mourning garments are but newly purchased – lost someone of such importance to them. The protective way in which you brought the fingers of your other hand to your wedding ring as you entered only confirmed my suspicions.” The lady nodded slightly, having regained her composure, taking the seat Holmes offered to her and smoothing her skirts in a business-like fashion. 

“Well reasoned, Mr Holmes. It is these abilities of yours – and a certain discretion in the more delicate of cases which have led you to come highly recommended to me.”

“In what way do you require my services, Lady Dalton?” Holmes asked, taking a seat again himself.

“Do you know how my husband died?” The lady asked. Holmes’ brow furrowed at her tone.

“The papers said it to be suicide. But you think not?”

“I _know_ not.” Lady Dalton said firmly. Holmes cocked his head, waiting for her to elaborate, but instead of which she unclasped her bag, taking out a single sheet of folded paper and handing it to Holmes, who took it gravely.

“To my darling Eliza,” He read aloud, “Though it pains me above all to leave you, I fear I have no other course open to me. The burden of shame I bear grows heavier each day, guilt that is the one thing that I can never share with you, the secret I can never speak of in your presence-“ Holmes looked up, although the lady had made no sound. The expression just visible behind her veil was solemn to the point of coldness.

"I knew.” She said simply. “I knew his secret and I accepted it. His blackmailers have made a terrible mistake.”

Holmes leant forward, his face grave as Lady Dalton began her story.

“My husband has been blackmailed for nearly two years.” She began, “These people – or person – somehow obtained a photograph of him in a rather compromising situation with a young man. I need hardly explain further.” She gazed sharply at Holmes, who frowned, clearly a little surprised.

"You did not object to your husband indulging in these affairs?” He asked. Lady Dalton laughed faintly.

“I loved my husband, Mr Holmes, so much that it seems to belittle our relationship to refer to it as a marriage of convenience although, in many respects, I suppose that’s what it was. We had known each other since we were children, Henry and I, and I have never been so close to anyone as I was to him – and he to me. I knew his secret long before we married – indeed, that was part of the reason we wed, in order to prevent suspicion from falling on him and to quiet the demands of his father for him to provide an heir.” She paused, a faint hint of sadness finally apparent in her voice. “And neither of us wanted to grow old alone. I myself do not form emotional attachments readily, Mr Holmes and, at thirty, some would have doomed me to spinsterhood already when Henry and I decided to marry.”

“What did you think of the blackmail, Lady Dalton?” Holmes asked. 

“I wanted Henry to refuse.” The lady answered, and I could well imagine her holding her icy calm throughout any such perilous situation. “If they exposed him I would, naturally, have stood by him. We could have made a mockery of these men! But I am a proud woman, and I am well aware that Henry worried that he had much to lose. The payments were small, though constant, and we could easily afford them. Though, in the end, it seems that they cost him his life.”

There was a pause, and Holmes bent his head again to examine the letter.

“Would you say that this note is written in your husband’s hand, Lady Dalton?” He asked.

“As far as I can judge, yes.” She agreed. 

“Do you have any other examples of his writing?”

The lady inclined her head.

“I have nothing with me, but I can easily return with some letters.”

Holmes shook his head briskly.

"There will be no need. I will visit you at home tomorrow morning. I shall need to take a look at the place your husband died.” Lady Dalton slid on her gloves, her voice purposeful.

“Very well, Mr Holmes. Until tomorrow.” She said.

**

“Remarkable woman.” Holmes said, when Lady Dalton had left and her carriage drawn away. I nodded, making my way over to where Holmes was seated, sliding my arms around him.

"I wouldn’t wish to be married to her, though.” I said with a grin, kissing his neck. He laughed, realising my point.

“No, I can’t say I’d ever want to go as far as Lord Dalton myself.” He agreed. Folding the note again, he extricated himself from my arms with a smirk. “But, if you’ll excuse me, James, I have some business to attend to.”

“Where are you going?” I asked, disappointed and somewhat hurt that he should want to begin this case without me.

“I have a few investigations to make before tomorrow.” He said, and raised an eyebrow archly. “Surely you can manage without me for a few hours?”

Sulkily I let him go, and it was not until the early hours of the morning that he returned and slid into bed beside me, rejecting my drowsy attempts to embrace him with obvious irritation.

Come morning I was, understandably, rather annoyed when I woke to find the bed empty. I got up, stomping straight into the living area with a perhaps slightly childish scowl on my face to find Holmes scanning through the newspaper. He didn’t even give me a chance to voice my annoyance.

“As delightful as you look naked, my dear Moriarty, you had better get dressed and breakfasted immediately if we are to catch the 9:40 train to Tunbridge Wells.” He said, with such decisiveness that I knew any complaint would be useless and, with another scowl, I did as I was told.

I refused to speak to Holmes all the way to Tunbridge Wells, although he didn’t appear to notice, staring out of the window in deep contemplation, pipe clamped between his lips. By the time our train pulled in at the picturesque town I was rather embarrassed by my own behaviour, purely due to its complete lack of effect, and when we reached the Dalton Manor I had abandoned my sulk entirely.

Lady Dalton welcomed us with as much warmth as her personality allowed and, realising that Holmes was anxious to get to work, took us straight into the study, a dark wood panelled room, the only light entering through large French windows leading into the gardens. Lady Dalton gestured imperiously toward these.

"Nothing in the room has been touched, save what the police moved.” She informed us. “And Henry himself, of course. He was lying in front of the windows.”

“It was you yourself who found your husband’s body, Lady Dalton?” Holmes asked, his voice unusually compassionate, as if Lady Dalton’s lack of emotion brought out those he rarely revealed himself. The lady nodded, and paused for a moment, presumably in order to control herself.

“It was late, and I wondered why I had not heard him go up to bed. I did not like to think of him sitting up worrying, for all the servants had retired long before, and he was alone in this part of the house. When I entered the study I saw him at once, for the lamp on the desk was lit, and Henry’s body lay in front of the windows, a pool of blood around his head and a pistol in his hand.” The lady trailed off, presumably finding the subject a difficult one to discuss, although this was not immediately apparent in her tone.

“And neither you nor anyone else in the house had heard the shot?” Holmes asked. Lady Dalton shook her head.

“The house is old and the walls unusually thick. The servants all sleep in the far wing, and I myself, just two floors away, heard nothing.”

“Then you would not have heard if there had been anyone else in the room with Lord Dalton?” Holmes enquired.

“I would not.” Lady Dalton agreed. “But it is quite possible that there might have been. It was a warm evening, and it is likely that the French windows were open to let in the air. After Henry’s body was discovered they were found to be closed, but not locked.” Holmes looked thoughtful, examining the windows for a moment.

“Finally,” He said at last, “Did the pistol with which Lord Dalton was found belong to him?”

“I had never seen it before in my life.” The lady said firmly, “But it is possible that it may have belonged to him nonetheless.”

“Well, with your permission Lady Dalton,” Holmes said, clearly satisfied with her answers, “I will examine the room more thoroughly – and if you would be so good as to get those letters you spoke of yesterday?”

“I shall fetch them this instant.” Lady Dalton answered and, as Holmes began to peruse the items on the desk, she left the room.

“It’s a shame,” Holmes mused, “If I only had the authority to examine the body, I have no doubt I could prove from the distance and angle at which Lord Dalton was shot whether the wounds were self-inflicted or no.” He shrugged and then, with characteristically matter-of-fact ambition, he added, “Of course, in time, I shall reach that level. And this case should be simple enough even so. If I find the murderer, one would hope that the police can cope with the simple task of proving that he committed the crime!”

"You are certain that Lord Dalton _was_ murdered?” I asked, with some interest.

 “It seems likely, given that someone else was in the room with him that night.” Holmes agreed, turning back to me. “You see this?”

“This” was nothing more exciting than a cigarette end. I nodded.

“Henry Dalton,” Holmes went on, “smoked Philip Morris’ hand-rolled cigarettes – I must say I respect the man’s taste – and there are many of these in the ashtray. But here-” and again he proffered the cigarette end, “we have an altogether cheaper Richmond Straight Cut No.1.” He paused, opening the French windows to peer at the ground outside as he spoke. “And so we can deduce two things.”

“Two?” I asked. Holmes looked up from where he was crouched close to the ground.

“Oh yes,” He reiterated, “First that Lord Dalton had company that evening – for had his visitor been before the servants retired, the ashtray would almost certainly have been emptied and, what’s more, someone would have been aware of Dalton’s guest. Secondly, we can deduce that, if this visitor were the murderer, Dalton knew him well enough to have a conversation – and a smoke – with him prior to his death.”

While I was digesting this information, Lady Dalton entered the room, several bundles of letters in her hands. These were deposited on an occasional table, as far away from the sorry site of the murder as possible.

"The letters addressed to me are in my husband’s hand,” Lady Dalton said, untying a ribbon around one of the bundles as Holmes rose and approached her. “These others I have never felt it my business to read, for they are my husband’s private letters. But perhaps there may be something of use among them.”

Holmes nodded with some satisfaction and sat down, picking up the pile of Lady Dalton’s letters. Some minutes passed as he examined these, and then took out the suicide note to compare it.

“Your husband was left-handed, was he not, Lady Dalton?” He asked suddenly. Lady Dalton appeared surprised, but covered it well.

"Yes, why do you ask?” She managed. Holmes smiled slightly.

“For I think we have proof that he did not write this note.” He said, holding up the suicide letter, “A man writing with his left hand will smudge the ink in the opposite direction to one writing with his right – as can be seen in a comparison of these letters. The forgery is excellent – the forger clearly had letters of your husband’s own to practise from, but he has fallen at this one hurdle!” Laying down the bundle, he began to leaf through Lord Dalton’s own letters, gazing at the front of the envelopes in something akin to feverish excitement, so that Lady Dalton and I could not help but watch him closely, both starting slightly when he pulled one letter from the bundle with a cry of triumph.

“This is it!” He exclaimed, rising to his feet as two pairs of eyes looked at him expectantly. He laughed. “I can tell you no more until I have checked out one further thing.” He said, before holding out his hand to take Lady Dalton’s, “But, my dear Lady Dalton, I hope you will do us the pleasure of lunching with us in Bermondsey tomorrow – 12 o’clock would be excellent!” Lady Dalton hid her surprise well.

“Certainly, Mr Holmes, I should be glad to accept your invitation.” She said, managing to curb herself from asking the questions which must have been circling in her head just as in mine. However, even my queries were to remain unanswered – all Holmes managed on the way home was a gleeful, “Wait and see, James – wait and see!” Before we returned to the house, however, he dashed into a post office, sending two telegrams before acting as if the case was entirely solved, spending the rest of the evening cheerfully playing his violin.

**

At twelve o’clock the following day we had two visitors – Lady Dalton, and a very suspicious Scotland Yard man, Inspector Hamilton, suggesting that Holmes’ telegrams had been particularly persuasive. The Inspector, however, did not intend on staying long.

“I don’t know who the devil you are!” He said angrily – followed by an embarrassed glance at Lady Dalton on behalf of his language - after Holmes had kept us waiting with a smirk for nearly fifteen minutes, “But if you don’t tell me what this information you have on Lord Dalton’s death is right now, I’ll-“

We never found out what Inspector Hamilton’s threat was for, at that very moment, Mrs Seaton rapped on the door, bringing in a visitor who must have arrived under cover of Hamilton’s outburst. The stranger was a fairly tall but stooping fellow with an apologetic air, and tidy but well-worn clothing.

“Arthur Taylor?” Holmes said, striding across to shake the bemused man’s hand.

“Yes…” The man murmured, glancing around in confusion, before noticing Lady Dalton and freezing with obvious horror. Holmes took this opportunity to ensure that he blocked the young man’s exit from the room. Looking behind him and seeing he was trapped, Mr Taylor fumbled in his jacket pocket, producing a packet of Richmond cigarettes. Holmes smirked knowingly.

“I assume by your manner, Mr Taylor,” He said, “That Lord Dalton’s death was a crime of passion, in which case you are probably eager to unburden yourself of the guilt.”

Mr Taylor swallowed.

"I don’t know what you mean…” He said nervously, lighting his cigarette with shaking hands.

“Come now, Mr Taylor!” Holmes said, still smirking, “The note Lord Dalton left was written by someone other than he – someone right-handed, while Lord Dalton wrote with his left. It could have been supposed that the killer was Lord Dalton’s blackmailer. But why would such a ready source of money be cut off for no reason? The paper was expensive, presumably in the assumption that Lord Dalton was of the station to use such paper, and I tracked it down to Dorling & Gregory in Finsbury. Where also, as I discovered from his letters, lived the one person other than Lady Dalton who knew Lord Dalton was being blackmailed – his lover!”

At this revelation it was not only Taylor who started, but also the Scotland Yard man.

“Blackmail?” He said in surprise.

"You _knew_?” Taylor’s disbelieving gasp was directed at Lady Dalton.

Holmes laid a soothing hand on Taylor’s shoulder.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” He asked. Taylor sighed, suddenly broken, folding his thin frame onto the couch.

“I never meant for this to happen,” He said, “I loved him! More than he ever loved me… I wanted him to leave with me – leave everything for love – go abroad together. There are places we would have been looked upon more kindly than here. And he could escape the blackmail. It seemed a perfect plan!”

Taylor didn’t look up, but his voice quavered. “He told me he would never leave his wife. Although he loved me he loved her, albeit in a different way. I hated her. I hated _him_ for living a lie!” He swallowed, “I wrote to him. I begged him to take me back. I said ridiculous things. That night, when I went to the manor, I took the note I had spent days preparing. I meant it as a threat – to show how deep my feelings were. If I couldn’t have him, no one could! I never meant…” He swallowed. “But I had the gun – I wanted to _force_ him to leave with me! But we talked and he was kind and reasonable and I loved him all the more, yet still he wouldn’t go with me. And, when he asked me to leave, I found I had squeezed the trigger of the pistol without even realising it.”

There was a long pause after Taylor had finished his story. Finally Holmes broke the silence, his words unusually angry.

“Your act was purely selfish, Mr Taylor.” He said, “Is that what you call love?”

Arthur Taylor was unable to answer as Inspector Hamilton led him away.

**

 “It seems strange to take money for the loss of someone’s husband.” Holmes remarked that evening, frowning slightly as he unfastened his collar. I rolled over in bed, sighing.

 “Well, if it is the line of work you insist on taking!” I teased him. “You did what Lady Dalton wanted. Now the case is over you need to stop worrying about it and come to bed!” Holmes looked up with a wry smile.

"Perhaps.” He folded his trousers, hanging them over the back of a chair before lying down beside me, and I smiled back at him as he pulled me into his arms.

"Ah, Sherlock…” I sighed, and it was then that I realised what the tribulations of the preceding days had meant, what my annoyance at Holmes’ actions signified. Like Arthur Taylor I was jealous. I wanted Holmes to myself, wanted him to have no other interests but me – not his work, not anything. Did that mean I loved him?

But my thoughts melted away as Holmes kissed me, and I felt his hands move over my body with an assured touch, the pride in his success increasing his confidence still further, so that I didn’t resist in the slightest as he eased me onto my back. I closed my eyes, losing myself in his scent, in his every touch, his fingers stroking the cleft between my buttocks, kisses firm and insistent on my lips.

I wanted him inside me that day more than I had ever wanted anything. Perhaps this signified a change in our relationship, it’s hard to tell. But I needed him to possess me utterly, to want me so much that he would never cast me away as Henry Dalton had Arthur Taylor, and when I felt him penetrate me I thought for a moment that I would come immediately from the sheer need that bubbled up inside me.

But the moment passed, and instead I felt Holmes drive deep inside me, again and again, his movements never particularly gentle, but never too harsh, penetrating to the very core of my body. He fucked me long and hard that night, and every second of it seemed precious. I wondered if he had had the same thoughts as me. I wondered… and then I was coming, clinging helplessly to Holmes in the violent onslaught of orgasm, crying out as he too ejaculated inside me, his gasps loud in my ear.

It was obvious that Holmes had not forgotten his case, even then, for as we lay in each other’s arms, bodies slippery and warm with sweat, he murmured.

"I shall never understand how an educated young man like Arthur Taylor could do something so foolish.”

“I’d do it.” I said before I could stop myself, “I’d kill for you.” Holmes raised an eyebrow, sounding rather amused.

"You’d kill for me, James?” He repeated. I nodded.

“I love you.” I said simply, and then bit my lip, wondering if I had said too much.

“Hmmph – love!” Holmes snorted and, tired from the fervours of the case and his later exertions, he rolled over and went to sleep.


End file.
